


All Roads Lead To

by Kacka



Series: Kacka Does Another Thing [3]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ancient Rome, Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, Star-crossed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-18
Updated: 2018-04-26
Packaged: 2019-04-04 08:24:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,542
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14016210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kacka/pseuds/Kacka
Summary: Power is everything in the Roman Empire. Clarke's family needs her to marry well to hold onto theirs. Bellamy, low-born and looked down upon for his profession, doesn't have enough of it to court her. Their love transcends social classes, but it may not be enough to prevent them from being ripped apart.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TracyLorde](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TracyLorde/gifts).



> Kat asked for a historical AU! hope you like it, friend! <3
> 
> some things i feel like i need to warn you about:
> 
> 1) this is angsty and incomplete so if you need to wait until i've posted the rest, go forth with my blessing
> 
> 2) there is no violence in this fic so i didn't use the warning, but there is a smudge of gore at the end of this chapter in case that grosses you out. just throwing that out there
> 
> 3) i am not a history expert. there will be many inaccuracies. it's probably best to assume this is an alternate universe Ancient Rome as well as being an alternate universe bellarke.

Clarke was impatient.

The warm summer night clung to her skin despite the cool breeze that blew through the open courtyard doors. She adjusted her silken stola, the smooth glide of fabric across her skin interrupted where the humidity stuck it to her.

Around her, raucous cheers and rambling, drunken melodies poured out of homes and taverns alike. The air was heavy with perfumes and freshly-opened casks of wine, every window ablaze and the streets packed with revelers. Her betrothed had spent the day scoffing at the indignity of the festivities, and Clarke had spent the day arguing right back that such debauchery was exactly the kind of honor the god of wine and intoxication would appreciate.

A cool breeze swept between the columns of the temple and Clarke subtly shifted the silk away from her body, relaxing into the caress of the air against her skin. She half regretted dressing up for the occasion, but as the wind rustled the elaborate scenery adorning the stage that had been constructed for this occasion alone, a thrill of excitement overtook her discomfort.

“It should have started by now,” muttered Cassius at her elbow. Clarke bit back a retort, as she often found herself doing around her betrothed. She understood her mother’s strategy behind the match; Clarke’s father had been ill for some time now, her mother working with her father’s closest advisor to rule the province from behind the scenes. They could not withstand a coup if anyone found out the true state of the governor’s health.

Cassius, though a rigid, wearisome human being, came from a family with clout in the military. He hadn’t much in the way of brains, but that was just as well for Clarke. With a dullard of a husband inheriting her father’s position, she could rule the province as her mother did now for the rest of her life, and keep herself and her mother from financial ruin. Perhaps in time she could even train Cassius to keep his mouth shut. He wasn’t bad to look at, as long as he didn’t speak.

“They’re building suspense,” she said evenly, catching the eye of one of her handmaidens and giving a subtle jerk of her head. “Can’t you feel the audience’s anticipation?”

“The only thing I eagerly await is the opportunity to return to my quarters,” he groused.

“You did not have to accompany me tonight. I only meant to inform you that _I_ would be attending the performance. I never expected you to come along.”

“It isn’t safe for you to be on these streets alone. Not with so many drunkards around. I’m here to protect what’s mine.”

“I have my guards with me.” Her handmaiden returned with a chalice of wine and Clarke gave her a grateful smile as she accepted it. Cassius’s disapproving frown made her draw out her sip much longer than she had initially planned, the sour, potent drink going straight to her head. “And anyway, I’m not yours.”

“Yet.” He glared. “I hope you know that as my wife, I will expect you to uphold the same moral obligations--”

“I hope that _you_ know that I am a person and not a possession,” Clarke snapped, cutting over his lecture. “I will not be your subject, I will be your equal. I alone will be in command of my own actions. If that doesn’t suit you, you may break our engagement and find a more malleable wife.”

Cassius’s nostrils flared but he said nothing, as Clarke knew he wouldn’t. His family was high-ranking but they had no land of their own. He would be hard-pressed to find a better match for himself than Clarke, and they both knew it.

Before he could give any sort of response, the buzz of the crowd dimmed, the sound replaced by sandal-clad feet sauntering onto the stage. Clarke straightened to attention, eyes flickering to where the actor now stood center-stage, his shoulders back and eyes alight with mischief.

“About time,” Cassius muttered lowly, eyeing the man’s dark skin and beard with distaste. Roman men took pride in being clean-shaven, wanting to set themselves apart from Greek fashion.

Clarke did not elbow him as she wished to, but took a long drag of her drink instead.

The actor held the crowd’s attention for three more heartbeats before he launched into the opening monologue, voice carrying so far it rang against the stone ceiling and echoed out into the open streets.

Cassius’s distaste rolled off of him in waves but Clarke refused to let him ruin this for her. Attending performances such as this was her favorite part of Bacchanalia. She loved watching stories unfold before her eyes, and she knew this troupe to be masters of their craft. Though actors were among the lowest of the low when it came to their social status-- their professions often compounded with being foreign-born or even enslaved-- Clarke found herself entranced by the skill with which they slipped into another’s skin. The way they held a crowd’s attention, stirring emotion and bewitching with their words.

Other actors joined the first onstage gradually, most of whom Clarke recognized vaguely from past years. Yet with each actor who appeared, she felt a spike of disappointment and fear. Her favorite actor had yet to show himself. Had he taken ill? Left the troupe for another? Would she--

Her breath caught as the final player stepped out onto the stage. His lips were curled into an entrancing, knowing expression as his golden-brown eyes surveyed the gathered crowd. The warm night felt even warmer when his gaze flitted over her. And then words began pouring out of him, the timbre of a general moving an army to war. Nobody within hearing distance-- save Cassius, perhaps-- could escape the thrall he cast over the evening, Clarke least of all.

She could not even look away from him as he spoke, her fingers itching for something to draw with, some way to capture this moment forever. Though sculpture might suit him better, she thought, as she studied feeling in his face, the broad shoulders and smooth muscle beneath his tunic, the column of his throat and sharp curve of his jaw as he projected his words far and wide.

Her irritation with Cassius, her sweat-damp stola, even the hum of the wine in her veins faded as the tragedy unfolded before her. Only the first bursts of applause when the play came to an end broke the spell that had bound her, and as she joined the crowd in expressing her appreciation, those brown eyes found her once more, their gazes locked until Cassius, shaking her shoulder, forced it away.

“At last,” he was saying. “I thought it would never end. Let us return to your home for some peace.”

“I thought it was magnificent,” Clarke said with a defiant jut of her chin, and swept away without taking the arm of escort he offered to her.

She glanced back only once, though not toward Cassius. Instead, she looked to the proscenium, which no longer held the one person she wished to see.

* * *

She took her leave of Cassius shortly after they returned to her home, claiming that the wine and the late hour had taken their toll on her.

Rather than take to her bed, however, she exchanged her silk garments for airy linen, drew a veil over her golden hair, and stole back out into the night. She’d done this enough that she knew how to avoid the guards on their patrol as she slipped through the gates. Being out on her own after dark had been daunting the first few times she’d done it, but now, on the alert without being fearful, Clarke only felt a thrill at her escape.

“And where might the governor’s daughter be going, all alone at this hour of the night?”

She froze in her tracks, heart pounding as she turned to find the actor from the play leaning against one of the columns in the gate as if he’d been waiting just for her.

A grin crept across her features.

“To find the acting troupe she saw earlier and deliver her sincerest praises of their performance.”

He pushed off the column, almost predatory in the way he stalked toward her. Clarke did not move away, and he continued forward until he loomed so close she could feel the rise and fall of his chest between them with each breath.

“You could have delivered such praises hours ago.”

“Familial duties prevented me from doing so.”

“Familial duties,” he echoed softly, reaching to tuck a blonde curl back behind her golden pins. “Is that what you call him?”

“I could not bear to be in his presence for less.” She curled her hand around his arm, her gaze imploring as she studied his conflicted expression. “Let’s not speak of such things tonight.”

“Not speaking of him will not make him cease to exist.”

“Bellamy.”

He tightened his jaw but said nothing more, instead placing his hand over hers and lifting it from his arm. Clarke began to protest, but he only brushed his lips across her knuckles before turning it over so he could properly escort her back toward the city.

The silence between them had grown sorrowful. Clarke could not bear it. Their hours together, when his troupe had come to town and she could free herself from the watchful eyes of her father’s estate, were so precious and few. She did not want to spend them in mourning.

“How fares your sister?”

“Headstrong,” he scoffed, though his mood lightened perceptibly. “One of our players fell ill just before our performance in Etruria and she donned his helmet and took his place. I didn’t discover it until I found her opposite me upon the stage. A _senator_ was there. She could have gotten us all arrested.”

“That sounds like Octavia.”

“I would be in far better health if it was a little less like her.”

Clarke eyed him, tightening her grip on his arm. “You appear to my eyes to be in excellent health.”

His crooked smile reappeared, setting her mind and heart at ease.

“You flatter me, my lady. Though perhaps you will need a better look for a full assessment.”

“I think you’re right. And I expect you’ll look somewhat less well-rested, come morning.”

Bellamy chuckled but his pace sped a little.

“Promises, promises.”

No one in the streets took a second glance at them as he led her back to the inn where he always took rooms when he was in the region.

Once inside, with his door firmly shut behind them, he crushed Clarke to him in the kiss she’d been waiting for since the previous year’s Bacchanalia. The tight clasp of his arms around her stole her breath, but his lips on hers gave it back. She poured herself into it, giving him every part of herself she could. He matched her, fragment for fragment, until all she was had crumbled and been pieced together into something new and beautiful.

Slowly, carefully, he unraveled the covering from her hair, taking care not to catch it on her golden pins. Once removed, his eyes roved greedily across her face, drinking her in as thirstily as a man who had trekked across the desert. Clarke tugged at the tie around his waist, slowly enough he could have stopped her. He didn’t. He merely eased her tunic off one side, running his lips along the line of her shoulder, then did the same with the other.

As they undressed each other, words that Clarke wished she could say, but knew she must hold back, welled up in her throat. _No statue could do him justice_ , she thought when he was bare before her, rescinding her earlier musings. If he told her he had been born of the gods, she would have believed it. Their joining felt like an act of worship, reverent and divinely blessed.

After they had finished, they shared some wine, dried figs and almonds, and stories of things they’d seen and done since they last saw one another. He told her tales of lands she’d never seen; she told him of the few and far-between days when her father was in good health and good spirits enough to leave his room.

Every time he bent his head to hide a smile, her heart soared in a dangerous way, and when he told her of his troupe’s comical misfortunes on the road she laughed so hard wetness leaked from the corners of her eyes.

Bellamy lifted a hand to catch the tear before it could roll down her face, bringing his finger to his lips, tasting the salty drop on his tongue. Her eyes tracked the movement, and once more they were lost to passion.

When the candles had burned low and sunlight began streaming through the cracks in the shutters, Clarke found herself in a half-woken daze. Her lids were heavy but she refused to yield to sleep. Bellamy's movements were languorous as he stroked his fingers across her back, down her arm, smoothing over her hair. Beneath her ear, his heart drummed steady and slow in his chest. The sorrow from earlier had returned, coiling so tight around her heart and lungs she felt as if she couldn’t breathe.

“I’ll have to redirect our route next year,” Bellamy murmured, flattening his palm between her shoulder blades.

Clarke frowned.

“What do you mean?”

He was silent for long enough she picked up her head. His eyes were soft and sad.

“You must know… I can’t come back here once you are wed. I can hardly stand it now, knowing a few hours are all I’ll get. To see you, and know that I could never have you--” Her lip trembled as his eyes glassed over. “I couldn’t bear it.”

“I can learn to sneak out of my husband’s house as easily as I do my parents’.” She pressed her forehead to his, pleading. “This doesn’t have to end.”

“I’ve asked around about your Cassius. He does not seem the sort who would be merciful if he found us out. I could never put you in such a position, Clarke.”

She raised a hand to his face, stroking her thumb over his freckled cheek, committing him to memory. He kissed her wrist, then pulled her to him with a hand on the back of her neck, giving her a deeper kiss full of words that would never make it past his lips.

“Marry me,” she whispered brokenly.

Bellamy shuddered and rolled her beneath him, kissing her even more fiercely than before. Both their faces were damp, though she couldn't be sure which of them were crying. For once, not even his kisses were enough to distract her from the truth that lay before them. For once, her desire for him and the contentment of his presence were not enough to drive out the shadows lying in wait.

If he had agreed to marry her, she would have left with him that very moment. She might have regretted it later, when she thought of leaving her ailing father to die without her by his side, of leaving her mother powerless. But she would have done it, abandoning all reason. What need did she have for reason when Bellamy was her very heart?

Perhaps Bellamy knew she would abandon her better judgment if he agreed. Perhaps he couldn't lie to her, or perhaps he simply didn't want to utter the truth aloud. Whatever the reason, he gave her no answer. He didn't need to. 

They both knew it could never be.

 

**_6 Years Later_ **

Bellamy felt his shoulders pull taut as he guided his horse down a familiar path. True to his word, he had not returned to this place since the morning he bade Clarke farewell outside her father’s villa. Even after so much time had passed, his stomach turned at the thought of seeing her with her husband, or by now, maybe even her children. Carrying on with her life without him, as she ought.

Ending his tryst with her had wounded him, and though he thought it had been repaired over the years between them, entering back into Arcadia’s outskirts ached in a place so deep he wondered if it would ever truly heal.

He would not be returning now if he had any say in the matter, but centurions had little sway over the decisions of their commanding officers.

“Be grateful they even let you _join_ the legion,” Octavia had grumbled when last he saw her. Her thirst for blood was greater than most of the soldiers in his cohort. If being an actor had stripped them of the right to join the military, she was doubly prevented by virtue of being female.

The leap up the social ladder from actor to centurion had been enormous for Bellamy, and only came to pass because his troupe had access to certain provinces the army had been unable to infiltrate. Strategic provinces a certain consul needed in order to move against other regions and amass power.

He’d been a good soldier, an asset to his cohort, and had steadily worked his way up the ranks. And none of it mattered, he thought bitterly as the first buildings came into view. For not only had he gained status too late, but he still had not gained enough to even think of asking to visit with the governor’s wife.

“Bellamy.” Justus whispered at his side, teeth gritted. “Was that there the last time you were here?”

He followed Justus’s gaze across fields to the high ground where a temple of Artemis had once stood. Now, only ruins remained.

Come to think of it, they should have encountered the citizenry by now.

Urging his horse faster with a squeeze of his heels, he maneuvered to the front where the commanding officer of his cohort rode with a few of his officers.

“Blake.”

“Sir.”

“I don’t believe I called for you.”

“No sir.” He paused, swallowing. “I feel that something is amiss here.”

The commander slowed his horse, the soldiers behind him lagging as well.

“Speak.”

“Arcadia used to be a thriving city. That temple--” he jerked his head toward the ruins. “Was built only ten years ago.”

“Whatever you're thinking, speak it plainly”

Doubt rang in Bellamy’s mind. It was possible that he would be staking his reputation upon nothing, but-- his instincts were reliable, and right now they were all standing at attention. Something about this was _wrong_.

“I think there used to be workers in these fields every day,” he said slowly. “I think that whatever caused that temple to fall was an act of man, not an act of nature.” He paused. “I think it’s odd we hadn’t heard that Arcadia was in ruins when we left Polis. Whatever befell this city might not have left yet. I think we ought to be on our guard, entering here.”

The commander studied him carefully, then nodded to his men.

“To be over-cautious will not impede our progress,” he said to Bellamy, his hand resting on his pilum as he started forward again. Bellamy nodded, matching pace. He needed to know what had happened here. Who had been at risk. Whether any survived. Returning to his place in the ranks wouldn’t do.

No person or creature met them as they made their way through the silent streets. Many of the buildings had been reduced to rubble, scorch marks adorning those still standing. The fear in Bellamy’s gut consumed more and more of him the further into the city they went.

He directed the commander to the city forum, a smell of charred flesh growing stronger the nearer they got.

They rounded the corner, only to find the square bathed in blood, worse than some battlefields Bellamy had seen in his time. Scavengers had begun to pick at the corpses that had been untouched by fire, the stench of death making Bellamy’s eyes water.

The commander drew his sword and his men followed suit.

Bellamy could not.

He dismounted, staggering forward. Though he wanted nothing more than to look away from the gruesome scene before him, he could not do that either. His eyes flitted from one body to the next, looking for and afraid of finding that telltale golden hair.

At last, his gaze alighted upon a body swathed in a purple cloak. The color of royalty.

Dread seized him even as he stepped forward to remove the cloak. Though he feared what he would find, he knew he had to see for himself if she-- if--

He threw the cloak back and exhaled, his heart pounding harder within his chest.

“Do you know this man?” The commander asked, carefully watching the way Bellamy sagged under the weight of relief and terror both.

“I never met him,” Bellamy said, voice like gravel. “But his name was Cassius. He was the governor of Arcadia.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More parallels! More angst! And you may have noticed there are now going to be 3 chapters total. This is why I normally stick to oneshots.

The first time Clarke ever made a covert escape from her parents’ villa, she was sixteen and brimming with adolescent rebellion. Her parents were hosting a feast in honor of Bacchanalia, at which there was too much political scheming and not enough organized chaos to appeal to Clarke over the sounds of music and excitement floating from the forum below.

“This isn’t a good idea,” Wells hissed as they cut through the back gardens, where no one inside the villa had a direct line of sight on them. Clarke’s original idea had been to steal wine and food and retreat to the gardens themselves, but then it occurred to her that there was no reason to stop at the garden boundaries, and that determined it.

“Then you need not accompany me. I know the way better than you do, as I am the one of us who lives here.”

“I worry for your safety, not your navigational abilities.”

“Well, you can put those worries to rest because I’m armed.”

Wells made a choking sound. Clarke smiled victoriously. He was always so _proper_. It delighted her to no end to shock him.

“Who armed you?” He demanded, incredulous.

Clarke leveled a glare his way. “I armed myself. I’ve been taking lessons from my guards. The military may not want me but I know where the armory is, and how to defend myself.”

Wells straightened his shoulders. His father had begun his military training from a young age, something Wells took extremely seriously. Clarke was certain that once he was old enough to join, there would be songs composed of Wells’s heroism on the battlefield. She herself would have them sung as often as possible, if only to embarrass her friend.

“I am not going to stop you from doing as you please, am I?”

“No,” she agreed, cheerful. “So I say again, you may return to the villa and the dullest celebration Rome has ever seen, or you may come with me and give yourself peace of mind. Perhaps you’ll even find it within you to enjoy yourself.”

“Unlikely,” he protested, but followed her out of the gardens and down the path toward the city.

They lost themselves easily in the crowd, dancing and drinking, giddy with triumph and freedom. At last they collapsed upon the ledge of the fountain that stood in the center of the forum, basking in the warmth of the evening sun and observing the chaos that surrounded them.

“See?” Clarke said, nudging Wells in the leg with one sandaled foot. “You may confess, this has been a much more entertaining afternoon than you expected. I am prepared to accept your surrender.”

Wells scoffed and kicked her back.

“I will admit to no such thing.”

Before Clarke could give the retort she wished to, a commotion nearby caught her attention. As she turned to look, she felt a strange weight at her waist. Belatedly, she realized that the weight had been someone’s hand, and that her purse was now missing from her belt. Without so much as a word to Wells, Clarke dashed off after the thief.

People turned to stare as she pursued him across the square, and as Wells pursued her in return, a trail of disgruntled, jostled revelers in their wake. Her legs were not as long as the thief’s, but through some feat of determination Clarke began to gain on him.

Just as she was closing the distance between them, someone stepped into the thief’s path, catching him by the front of his tunic and using his momentum to throw him to the ground. Clarke watched it unfold but could not swerve in time. She collided with the man who had intervened, sending both of them sprawling.

“Watch where you are going, my lady,” he grunted beneath her. As Clarke caught her breath, she found that she had fallen atop her mysterious savior, and as she scrambled for purchase to push herself up, her hands landed on his chest, her knee in his gut. She winced at his groan.

“Apologies. It’s a poor way to repay you, but I have to go--”

“I’ve got him,” Wells called. Clarke looked up, surprised to find him holding the thief with one arm wrenched behind his back. She looked down to the man-- the _boy_ on the ground, she corrected herself, as he could be not much older than herself, and extended a hand to help him up.

He knocked her hand away, staggering to his feet upon his own power and brushing the dust from his tunic.

“Thank--”

“What did you do?” The boy demanded to the thief, ignoring Clarke entirely.

She looked between them in surprise, finding the thief glaring not at Wells or at her, but at the other boy.

“I didn’t do anything.”

“You were running from them for nothing.” The boy crossed his arms over his chest, working his jaw.

“He stole from me,” Clarke put in. She had not bothered to brush the dust from her own garments and she could feel it caking her skin, worked deep into the scrapes she had sustained upon colliding with the stone. But the dark-haired boy had taken the brunt of the fall, she recalled. His back must be in worse shape than her knees and elbows. “He took my purse.”

“Give it back.”

“It was only a few coins--”

“Give. It. _Back_ ,” the boy growled. Clarke moved a hand to the dagger that hung at her belt and the thief’s eyes darted to her hand, then her murderous expression. He sighed, and with his free hand reached into the folds of his tunic, tossing her coin purse at her feet.

Clarke regarded him warily as she bent to retrieve it, never removing her other hand from her weapon.

“Are you going to release me now?” The thief demanded. Wells looked as if he wished to call over the city guards but Clarke shook her head at him. After a moment of indecision, he let the thief go, moving to stand by Clarke’s side.

“Go back to the camp,” the boy ordered the thief. “And try not to do anything else to get us exiled from the city, or thrown in prison.”

“Thank you,” Clarke told him as the thief swaggered away, muttering curses. “I am grateful--”

“Save your thanks.” His expression did not lighten as he looked at Clarke and Wells, taking stock of their fine clothing. “It is thanks enough you did not have us both arrested, my lady.”

The way he sneered the title was more despising than respectful and Clarke felt her face and neck heat with anger.

“My name is Clarke.”

“Lady Clarke, then.” He gave a mocking bow to her, and then to Wells. “Excuse me.”

He started after his acquaintance but something possessed Clarke to call after him.

“In polite society, when someone gives you their name you ought to return the favor.”

He paused and looked back at her, something akin to surprise flickering upon his face. Clarke found she liked defying his expectations as much as she did with Wells.

“It’s Bellamy,” he said at last, turning his back to them and hurrying away before she could continue the conversation.

“Come on,” Wells said, tugging at her arm. “Let’s go back to the festival before bandits worse than that set upon us.”

Clarke let herself be drawn away, but could not banish the encounter from her mind.

* * *

She did not give much thought to whether she would ever see Bellamy or the thief again, so it caught her off her guard when she spotted them taking the stage at the play much later.

“Is that--” Wells whispered. Clarke nodded.

“Apparently so.”

Though Bellamy had very few lines to speak, she found herself watching him carefully whenever he was on the stage. She had always loved the theatre, but something about him captivated her in an entirely different way.

At the end of the performance, she tossed her coin purse-- the same that he had helped her rescue earlier-- onto the stage.

“What are you doing?” Wells sighed. Clarke herded him out of the temple. Darkness had fallen and they would soon be missed from her parents’ feast, if they hadn’t been already.

“They earned it.”

“They’re _actors_.”

“So they could probably use the coin more than I could.”

Wells sighed and shook his head. “When am I going to learn not to argue with you?”

“If you haven’t learned it by now, I doubt you ever will.”

They had made it halfway to the villa when Clarke heard someone on their heels. Acting on instinct, she whirled around, her blade at the throat of their attacker before she even registered who it was.

Bellamy held very still, hands raised as if to show he were not a threat. His chin was lifted away from her dagger but his eyes were trained on her face.

“You forgot this,” he said, shaking her coin purse in his hand.

Clarke blinked and stepped back, dropping the dagger back to her side.

“I didn’t forget it. I left it. There’s a difference.”

He made the same movement with his jaw that he had earlier, as if restraining a torrent of words threatening to spill from his lips.

“You think we need your charity, my lady?”

“I think it would be a shame to deprive any city of such a wonderful performance as the one I just saw,” she snapped. “Consider it patronage. Throw it away, give it away, spend it. I won’t take it back, so do with it as you wish.”

He took a step toward her, opening his mouth as if to argue, and she mirrored him, adjusting her grip on her dagger. Bellamy paused, eyes darting to the movement.

“Brave of you,” he said at last, so close to her now that she could have tilted her chin up and kissed him. She was surprised by how much she wanted to. After a moment of staring, he shook his head, clearing it, and stepped back.

"I thank you for your patronage, my lady." This time when he bowed to her, it carried more deference.

Clarke rolled her eyes, face warm again. “I’ve given you my name. You might use it.”

“I might.” The smile on his face was spellbinding. “Enjoy the rest of your Bacchanalia.”

“Same to you,” she said, watching as he turned back toward the city. He looked back only once, that same expression upon his face, before Wells called her name and they continued on to the villa.

The following year, she sat as near to the stage as she could get. He spotted her the moment he made his appearance, and, having had a year to practice it, Clarke returned the heated look of appreciation he swept over her.

That year was the first occasion she snuck out after dark, having made arrangements to meet Bellamy.

It would be nowhere near the last.

 

**_Twelve Years Later_ **

“You wished to see me?”

Bellamy’s commander looked up from the missive he was reading and gestured for Bellamy to enter the tent. It took everything he had in him not to follow the trail of those who had caused Arcadia’s destruction.

Not that his primary aim was to avenge the city. No, his prey in hunting them down would be Clarke; her body had not been found among the dead in the forum. She had not been found in her home, either. He privately suspected that she had been taken, or-- in his less cynical moments-- that she had been out of the city, out of harm’s way, and would hear of what had befallen her people before trying to return.

Still, as he stood silent before his commander, pleas to take leave of his cohort, to go and pursue the attackers, sat heavy on his tongue.

“We believe what happened here has not spread to the surrounding area,” his commander said at last. “Which means one of two things: either they retrieved whatever it was they came for, or the city resisted enough that the attackers have retreated to tend to their wounds.”

He paused, as if to let Bellamy speak, but Bellamy could only nod. He did not yet trust himself to let words past his lips.

“You know the area,” the commander continued. “Was there anything of value here they might have taken?”

_Only to me_ , Bellamy thought. When he spoke, his voice was hoarse.

“Women and children.” _Clarke_. “There seemed to me a disproportionate number of male corpses.”

The commander nodded, satisfied.

“Yes, I noticed the same thing.” He set the missive down and turn to face Bellamy fully, clasping his hands behind his back as he took stock of him. “You are a good soldier. I think you would do well with a command.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“That is why I’m sending you with a small number of men to pursue the trail that leads east of the city.”

Bellamy froze, stunned. The commander was offering him everything he had wanted, but hadn’t dared to ask for.

“Thank you, sir,” he said reflexively.

“You will leave at first light and report back when you have found either the enemy or the trail’s end. And I will need to approve the men you choose to bring with you.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You are dismissed.”

As he returned to his own tent, he began weighing names in his mind. Men who were experienced trackers, who would follow his orders without challenge, who were smart and stealthy. Yet one name kept reappearing, time and time again. A name that did him no good in this moment, for it did not belong to a soldier.

Try as he might, he had never been able to keep Clarke far from his thoughts, just as he had never been able to bar her access to his heart.

He _would_ find her. There was no alternative.

He would find her, and bring her home.

* * *

Though the trail proved to be much older than Bellamy would have guessed, it was luckily in tact. He knew from experience how difficult it was to move a great number of people and supplies across land without leaving evidence of having been there.

It was also difficult to move a great number of people and supplies very quickly, which is how he and his five men caught up with the enemy-- whom they had determined along the way to be Gallic rebels-- swiftly.

“On your guard,” he cautioned his men as they crept around the perimeter of the camp.

Rome had taken most of Gaul’s trained or trainable soldiers for its own army. The group Bellamy and his men observed now had surely only managed to overpower the city through creating chaos, for even their numbers were not so many as he would have expected.

He saw few fighters who could withstand a disciplined attack, and most of the ones he did see could be found flanking their leader on either side as she made her way through the crowd.

Bellamy blinked.

Had that been--

Another flash of gold presented itself, drawing his eye immediately. He could not make out the figure very well, but he would know that hair anywhere. Had spent many nights twisting his fingers in it.

Sure enough, as the commander and her guards moved into a clearing, he could see Clarke among them. Bellamy’s breath caught as he studied her. Dressed in furs and dark colors, she was clad very differently than the young woman he had once known. But the defiance in her eyes, the challenging tilt of her chin-- that was Clarke through and through. A searing flame of pride and love flared up within him at the sight of her refusal to be intimidated.

She walked free, he noted with more relief. No shackles bound her hands or ankles. The guards surrounding her and the Gallic commander were deterrent enough to make an attempt at escape, but she did not look to be hurt, and she certainly did not look to be dead.

His heart started beating again as the commander said something and gestured to the largest, most opulent tent in the camp. Clarke nodded-- not in deference, but almost as one queen to another-- and allowed the guards to escort her away.

“Who do you think she is?” Justus whispered at Bellamy’s side.

“She’s the wife of the dead governor of Arcadia,” he answered, unable to bring himself to speak her name. As his men continued to watch the camp, Bellamy began divesting himself of his shield, his gladius, all the things that would mark him as noticeably Roman.

“What are you doing?” Justus hissed.

“Seeking a private audience with her. We need to know what happened in the city before the legion can launch an attack.”

Justus took Bellamy’s things with great uncertainty but did not belabor the point.

“And if you don’t return?”

Bellamy paused.

“Return to the cohort at dawn, with or without me.”

He made his way quickly and quietly to the tent, keeping to the outskirts of the camp as much as he could so as to avoid being noticed. Keeping one hand on his weapon, he crept to the back of the tent, grateful that the guards had only taken up posts at the entrance in the front.

No sounds could be heard from inside, but his heart pounding in his chest told him that Clarke was in there. A stone’s throw and some fabric were all that separated them.

He slipped a dagger from his belt and, as he had watched his mother do thousands of times in her work as a seamstress, slid the blade along the stitching, easily and quietly snapping threads until the material could be pulled apart.

Ducking inside, he had time only to notice the golden glow of candlelight, the aroma of a fresh meal on the air, before his hair had been yanked back, a blade pressing dangerously into the skin at his throat.

“Who are you, and what do you want?”

Her voice could have brought him to his tears if it weren’t for the weapon she held against him. How she had managed to arm herself, he had no idea, but even though he was now at her mercy he was grateful she had some means of her own protection.

“I’m here to aid in your escape, my lady.”

Her hand in his hair loosened and he took the chance of dropping his dagger in the dirt, raising his hands so that she could see he posed no threat.

“Bellamy?”

The blade disappeared and he fell to his knees, chest heaving as he tried to regain some sense of himself. Clarke came around to face him, falling down beside him and letting him gather her in his arms.

“I can’t believe it’s you,” she said, pressing her forehead to his. A tear slipped from her eye and Bellamy swept it away with a gentle caress of his thumb.

“I was so afraid,” he confessed, clenching his fists in the fur draped around her shoulders. “When we found Arcadia in such a state-- I kept thinking it would be your body I would find next.”

“I’m here. I’m alive.” She pulled back to look at him, her wonder slowly overtaken by fear. “Bellamy, you can’t be here. If you’re discovered--”

“I won’t be.” He stood and helped her up, clasping her hands firmly in his own. “We’re leaving. My men are--”

“No.”

Clarke withdrew from his grip, looking as if it physically pained her to do so.

Bellamy couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

“No?” He repeated, incredulous.

“No,” she said, voice so sure he knew there was no changing her mind. “The commander respects me. She-- she trusts me. We’re making a truce. I can’t leave before we finish the negotiations.”

“A truce? With what power? Your husband is dead, your city in ruins--”

“Wells is a senator now. We are on our way to Alexandria to treat with him, but I don’t trust her on her own. I have sway over her. I have to stay.”

Each word was a knife in his gut.

“Then I’ll come with you.”

“What? _No_.” Horror washed over her features. “If she finds you here, she _will_ kill you. Or worse. I can’t bear it, Bellamy. I can’t bear to lose you.”

She felt so distant, Bellamy could barely comprehend her words. If the Gaul commander was so untrustworthy, how could he cope with Clarke’s choice to remain by her side? Hadn’t he already lost her once? And here she was before him like a vision, smoke that would slip through his fingers before he could catch it.

He reached for her, but she caught his wrists.

“Clarke,” he pleaded, so soft he could hardly hear himself.

She pressed a kiss to the palm of his hand, then the other, then stepped back.

“Go,” she told him, a commander in her own right. He was rooted to the spot. A noise sounded from just outside the tent and she whipped her head around, desperate. “Bellamy, _please_.”

His heart cleaving in two, he honored her choice and backed out of the tent until the flaps swung closed and he could no longer make out her figure. Each step away from her wounded him from within.

“May we meet again,” he breathed, and began back toward his men.

They would meet again.

He would make certain of it.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, I am not a historian.

Wells’s men met them at the border of his territory with enough armed, trained warriors to make the foreign contingent wary. Clarke and the commander, along with a select few of her best soldiers, were escorted to the senator’s property under armed escort. The trip was a tense one, hands never drifting too far from weapons, conversation grinding to a halt as soon as it had begun.

Once at the villa, the commander and her lot were shown to a waiting room to be given food and drink and a comfortable place to rest. Clarke began to seat herself but was stopped by the approach of one of the Roman guards.

“My lady, the senator wishes to see you.”

Clarke could feel the commander’s gaze burning upon her back but shrugged the sensation away. The commander knew she and Wells were old friends. It’s why she had been brought along, after all.

“Of course. I am eager to see him as well.”

The guard led her to a small garden on the far side of the home, where Wells stood with his hands clasped behind his back, eyes fixed upon a bubbling fountain, yet his expression suggesting he had turned his gaze inward.

“Posing for your statue?” She called, smiling at the way he jolted from his reverie. “I heard your father commissioned it bigger than life.”

“My father’s tales of my heroics are much exaggerated. Next thing I know, he’ll be putting my face on every coin in Rome, the emperor be damned.”

“More likely he’s spreading these rumors to grow support for a future coup. Once you’re the emperor, no one will object to your face upon the coins.”

Wells let out a sharp breath, laughter and frustration intermingling. “That’s not a joking matter.”

Clarke shrugged. “You’ve never thought my sense of humor was particularly funny.”

Looking over his shoulder, as if to verify that they were alone, Wells turned to face Clarke.

“I received word from your mother,” he said in a low voice. “Your guards delivered Madi safely. Marcus has dispatched a few of his own to notify a cohort stationed at a nearby border of the attack.”

“The army is aware of the attack upon Arcadia.” Clarke’s relief at her adopted daughter's safety could not outshine the shadow of fear that the attack of the Gaul rebels had cast. They could not hope to overpower the entirety of Rome, but they had long been discontent with being ruled over. They would take many lives with them before they were extinguished. “I believe they can be reasoned with. We can come to an agreement before any more blood is shed on either side.”

Wells sighed. “That sends a dangerous message, Clarke. That brute force against the people of Rome will not only be tolerated, but will be the best method to get what they want. What happens when they want more than what we’ve agreed upon?”

“That is why we need someone to remain among them. An ambassador of sorts, to keep watch over them and prevent them from doing to another city what they did to Arcadia.”

“You intend to offer yourself,” Wells realized. “An alliance of marriage?”

Clarke dipped her head.

“My husband is gone, and the commander trusts me. She _desires_ me. It makes sense that I would be the one to go.”

Wells looked as if he wanted to object, but the tactician in him set aside his personal distaste for the moment.

“Will that be enough to convince her?”

“I consider it an appeasement. If I am part of the deal, we can withhold some of their less reasonable demands.”

“And will that be enough for you?” Wells pressed, concern written across his features.

Clarke had never thought of marriage much as a union of love. As a girl, it had been an opportunity for her parents to increase their power. To think of it now as a strategy of war was not too difficult.

The commander, she knew, had forsaken love long ago, though that had not stopped her from wanting Clarke. Had not stopped her from lavishing her attentions upon Clarke over their long journey from Arcadia, of sharing meals and confidences and the privileges of her position. And Clarke let herself be had for a while, indulging in touches and affections that Cassius had never offered her.

Until Bellamy appeared like a specter from her memories, a wisp of a dream. Seeing him again had reignited feelings she thought had long ago crumbled to ashes. Between one moment and the next, she had found herself not upon the solid ground where she thought she stood, but teetering at the edge of a precipice. One careless move and she would tumble off of it all over again.

No, a marriage of love had never been in the stars for her. But that did not stop her from wishing for one, once. The memory of that wish blinded her after she had seen him again. It prevented her from making another nighttime visit to the commander’s tent for the remainder of their journey here. And now it stood in the way of Clarke’s ability to commit herself totally to this course of action.

Loyalty to her heart (and the one who held it, even after all these years) was a luxury she could not afford in times as tenuous as these. Not when her hand was the biggest bargaining chip in her possession. Yet she could not shake the raw ache in her heart, the feeling that the choice she made now was a grave error.

“It will have to be enough,” she told Wells, in a tone that had never stopped him from arguing with her before. “What I want most may not be possible.”

Wells turned his eyes back to the fountain, contemplating.

“I will meet with the commander,” he agreed at last. “But I will not commit you to this yet. Not until I know what else it is that she wants. Not unless we have exhausted all other options.”

“I would not have suggested it if I did not think it the best course of action.”

“Well, your judgment has always been questionable,” he said, but when she turned to scold him, the jesting glint in his eye made her laugh.

“Not so questionable you have broken association with me.”

Wells grinned. “Someone has to keep you in line.”

“You may try, anyway.”

His laugh died on his lips as he caught sight of his advisor and beckoned him forward. He informed them that a small contingent of centurions had arrived at the gates and requested an audience.

“Marcus’s men?” Clarke wondered, amazed at how quickly they must have traveled to arrive so soon.

“How many?” Wells asked.

“Five, sir.”

“Bring them here, but take care not to let their path cross within sight of the Gaul commander.”

The advisor nodded deeply and hurried away to follow instruction. Clarke remained where she stood. Cassius had never liked her to be privy to such discussions, but with matters so vital to her own interests she would not allow herself to be sent away. And Wells was not Cassius. Even if he had not wanted Clarke’s insight, he knew he would not have been able to bar her from joining in the conversation.

“I had not expected them to arrive for days yet,” he said, grave. “I already have one army camped at my borders. If these centurions have brought an entire cohort with them, Alexandria is likely to turn into a battlefield.”

“Smaller numbers travel quicker. Perhaps they are only messengers, or scouts.”

“Let us hope.”

The advisor must have brought the soldiers through some back passage that Clarke had not seen, for when they arrived they emerged from behind her. It was the shift in the expression Wells wore from consternation to confusion that signaled their appearance, yet she was unable to discern the reason for such a look until she turned and found herself face-to-face with Bellamy once more.

Seeing him, she felt as if the effects of several glasses of wine had struck her all at once: a dizzying relief that the last time she had seen him was not the last time she ever would; a yearning for him so strong that it broke the melancholy within her wide open, spilling her heart out upon the cobblestones; all coupled with the sensation of being parched. As if she had crossed a desert and stood now before an oasis.

She blinked once, twice, assuring herself that her eyes were not supplying the image of the person she wanted to see rather than the person who really stood before her. Yet the sight of him never wavered. There he stood, his armor and serious expression giving him an air that suited him. A breeze lifted his dark curls from his brow and Clarke found her eyes drawn to the sharp, determined cut of his jaw, the certainty in the set of his shoulders, the casual rest of his hand upon the hilt of the sword at his side.

His eyes swept over her once, as if he too were reassuring himself that she was not a mirage, but once done, he turned his attention to Wells.

The men accompanying him stood back when he stepped forward, and that made sense to Clarke too. When Bellamy spoke, he always had a compelling hold over any who heard him. That would carry easily into an officer’s command. She could imagine it well.

“Senator. My lady.”

“You look familiar to me,” Wells said, a frown still etched upon his face. “Have we met before?”

Bellamy’s eyes did not flicker toward Clarke, though the stiffening of his shoulders told her he knew exactly the occasion when they had met before.

“Once, many years ago. In Arcadia.”

“He caught a thief who had stolen from me,” Clarke supplied, finding her voice at last. The subtle jerk of his head in acknowledgment told her all she needed to know. He did not want to remind anyone of his former status as an actor, not when he had worked so hard to rise so far.

Wells heard something in her voice, for he glanced at her before nodding to Bellamy.

“Yes, I remember now. How fortunate that our paths should cross again.”

“The honor is mine, Senator. I have been dispatched here by my commander to observe the negotiations with the rebels. My cohort follows several days behind us.”

“How did your commander hear of the negotiations?”

“We were able to catch up with the rebels shortly after their departure from Arcadia.”

Wells nodded once. “And you can ensure that your commander will abide by the terms we agree to?”

“He serves Rome, just as you do.” He paused. “You have a history with the military, Senator. You know he will call for justice for the lives taken in Arcadia.”

“I hope to bring justice with diplomacy, but I will be glad to have your presence as a reminder of the might of Rome in case they are not amenable to our terms. You are welcome to join us in the negotiations.”

At the usage of the plural, Bellamy’s eyes flickered to Clarke. Even such a brief glance sent a swirl of emotion through her she could not control.

“We are at your service,” he said, ostensibly to Wells, but his eyes remained upon Clarke until the last word left his lips.

Wells missed nothing, of course. Clarke knew she would have much to answer for the next time they got a moment alone.

“You and your men have had a long journey,” he said now. “The negotiations will not begin for some time yet, if you would like to take the opportunity to wash and rest before they begin.”

Bellamy inclined his head. “If you could point us toward the nearest lodgings, we would be grateful for it. It does not need to be ostentatious; we are used to--”

“You may stay here. I will have someone show you to the vacant rooms.”

As Wells called for someone to lead the soldiers away, Clarke quietly excused herself to her own quarters, the ones she usually occupied when she came to visit. When she chanced one last look over her shoulder, she found Bellamy’s attention already aimed in her direction. Something dark and inviting skated up her spine but Clarke turned away before it could take hold.

Even so, the phantom weight of his gaze rested upon her shoulders long after she had disappeared from sight.

It was one thing to know she would be facing Bellamy for however long the negotiations would carry forth, with plenty of other avenues for her attention. To know that he slept beneath the same roof as she did… Clarke doubted she would be able to sleep very much at all.

* * *

Negotiations began over dinner, and they did not go as amiably as Clarke had hoped. Bellamy’s men, having seen the carnage in Arcadia, were unwilling to bend even a fraction to the demands of the rebels. The Gaul commander seemed to both bristle at their hostility and respect it more than Wells’s attempts at making peace.

As for Clarke, she did not know where she stood on the matter. The Gallic rebels had gone to extreme lengths to correct great injustice. They chafed at the reins that Rome had placed upon them, and understandably so. Hearing the conditions in which they lived, it came as no surprise to her that hatred and violence against their people had only bred further hatred and violence.

Yet Clarke could not forget the way they brought ruin upon the city she had always called home. How they endangered the lives of her own children and left many others injured or dead. She wanted to see them punished for their barbaric methods, though she was not without compassion for their cause.

Her divided mind was not aided by her fractured focus. She tried to keep only the Gallic commander and Wells within her line of sight, made easier by the fact that the rebel guards and the centurions remained standing in separate corners, two predators watching each other warily and ready to strike at a moment’s notice. She felt Bellamy’s presence at her back. He alone stood closer than the rest, whether because of his rank or because he, like Clarke, could not withstand the pull between them, she couldn’t be certain.

After hours of passing blame and refusals to hear terms, they finally seemed to be making progress. Wells’s unwavering sincerity had cracked the commander’s dispassionate exterior and they appeared to be reaching some sort of mutual understanding, when at once the fragile truce unraveled.

First it was a sputtering cough from one of the Gallic guards as he drank from his wine. Then it was purpling skin, the clatter of the goblet to the floor, his hands at his throat as he gasped for air.

Clarke rose to her feet, as did Wells and the commander. Most of the centurions behind her moved their hands to the hilts of their weapons, but Bellamy’s hand came up to bat Clarke's own wine out of her hand.

“He’s been poisoned,” he said, stepping forward to place himself between Clarke and the rebels. One of his men followed his example and moved to block Wells. As much as Clarke wished to remain so close to him, with his arm outstretched, his familiar warmth and scent enveloping her, she knew that the rebel needed aid or he would die.

And she was in a position to provide that aid.

“My lady.” Bellamy’s hand encircled her arm as she moved to step around him. “Stay back.”

“He needs help.”

“Whatever tentative ceasefire we had with them has ended. You cannot put yourself in such danger--”

“It has not ended yet," she cut him off forcefully. "But it will if we let him die.”

Yanking her arm from his grasp, Clarke rushed to the choking man, Bellamy closer on her heels than her own shadow. The commander already knelt by her guard’s side and held up a hand to restrain her men when they moved for their own weapons.

“Can you save him?”

“I can try. Turn him on his side.”

As it often did when she was healing, Clarke slipped into a realm of intense focus. All hell could have broken loose in the room around her and she would not have any idea. Part of it, she knew was the life-and-death consequences for the man whose life she was trying to save. But some sliver of herself was well aware that she would not so easily ignore the present danger if it weren’t for her immense, unwavering trust in the man by her side.

“Hold him steady,” she called as the man began convulsing. Bellamy and the commander moved at once to follow her command. They managed to keep him from choking on bile, and when he finally succumbed to unconsciousness, his pulse was weak and unsteady, but present.

“Without an antidote, there is little more I can do for him,” she confessed, lifting his hand to examine his fingernails. Though her mother was a distinguished healer, Cassius had not liked his wife spending time among the lower classes or devoting her attention to anything except running his household. It had not stopped her, of course, from treating the minor injuries and illnesses of those within her household, but she had not seen a patient in such serious condition as this in quite some time.

“I will send for the healer at once,” said Wells, but the commander stood, her men snapping to attention.

“You will do no such thing.”

“This man could die!”

“Something you ought to have considered before you poisoned his cup.”

Wells blanched.

“Get behind me,” Bellamy murmured beneath his breath. Clarke’s gaze darted toward him but he was watching the rebels. “If things go badly, _run_.”

“Bellamy--”

He looked to her now, and the depth of his expression took her breath away.

Distantly, she was aware of Wells insisting that he knew nothing of the poison. Only when the commander threatened to rally her forces did she resurface, standing and attempting to inject herself between the groups, much to Bellamy’s displeasure.

“I assure you, we had nothing to do with this. We want peace,” she told the commander, firm, hoping that what little trust she’d managed to build over their journey here would hold true.

But the commander shook her head. “Your assurances mean less than I thought they did.”

“Then let us prove it to you. We will find the party responsible.” Indecision wavered in her eyes and Clarke pressed on. “Get your man to a healer and give us time to sort this out. Don’t make rash decisions that can only end in slaughter.”

The commander’s eyes narrowed but after a tense moment she nodded sharply, then barked a command to her men. They gathered their fallen companion and began carrying him from the room.

“If he dies, my people will call for vengeance.”

“Then it is your responsibility as their commander to lead them.” To Clarke’s surprise, it was Bellamy who spoke. “If you cannot show that your people will abide by your rule, then we have no business discussing any treaty with you at all.”

Her eyes flashed.

“And if I cannot trust the safety of my people in your hands, then there is no point in my agreeing to any of your terms,” she shot back. “Find the guilty party or do not bother calling us back.”

She swept from the room in a fury and Wells deflated. Bellamy remained tense, his shoulders rigid and his face impassive as he stared after them. Clarke wanted to reach for him but held herself back.

“That went well,” she said, dry. No one laughed.

“If someone in my household was responsible, I don’t know what I can do,” said Wells. “I will not turn them over to be tortured at the hands of those rebels.”

“Send for the healer anyway,” Clarke advised him, suddenly tired. “He may be able to identify the poison from what’s left in the cup, or the man’s symptoms. Perhaps knowing what poisoned him will help us discover who is to blame.”

“No offense intended to your guards,” Bellamy interjected, “but I would rest more easily tonight if my men joined the watch.”

“No offense taken. I would sleep better too.” Wells glanced at Clarke. “You have had a long day of travel, even before all of this. You should get some rest.”

Clarke wanted to object, but exhaustion had settled into her bones. She _was_ tired, and she would be no help to anyone the following day if she did not rest.

She insisted upon waiting to speak to the healer before she retired for the night, but once she had done so, she could barely keep her eyes open.

“Allow me to escort you to your rooms, my lady.”

Her heart fluttered but Clarke tamped down on the thought. It would do her no good to read anything more into Bellamy’s offer than its face value. His concern for her was written plainly upon his face, his heart as easy to read there as it had ever been. She knew she must look weary. She suspected he would worry more if she turned him down.

“Thank you,” she replied, and took his arm.

She walked as slowly as she could reasonably manage, wanting to draw out the opportunity to touch him again, to be near to him. She hoped he would attribute it to her semi-conscious state, but even if he knew her true motives, he did not object to the pace.

When they arrived at her rooms at last, he kept her hand tucked into the crook of his arm as they slowed to a stop.

“I hope you will not consider it an intrusion if I station one of my men here overnight.”

“Not an intrusion, though I believe it to be unnecessary.”

“If not for your own safety, allow it for my peace of mind.”

Her heart lodged itself in her throat, striking her mute, and she nodded. Bellamy nodded in return, then lifted her hand to brush his lips across her knuckles before letting her go at last.

“Sleep well.”

Clarke nodded again, head spinning as the doors closed behind her.

The last thing she thought of before she drifted to sleep was his arm flung out to protect her, and his lips upon her skin.

* * *

She dreamed terrible dreams that night. Memories of the siege on Arcadia, overlaid with the faces of the people she held dearest. Her children struck down by spears; her mother trapped in their home as it burned; Bellamy, throwing himself in front of her as thoughtlessly as he had that evening, and losing his life for it. Bellamy choking on the poison, Bellamy convulsing on the ground, Bellamy’s heart stuttering to a stop--

The memory was so fresh, so vividly recreated in her mind, that when it startled her awake, it took her several frantic moments to realize that it had not been real.

It was not his blood that soaked her, but sweat. She could no longer feel his heartbeat, but because he was not in the room, not because he lay dying in her arms.

Her own heart beat too rapidly, as if she had run a long way.

A fierce gust of wind crashed through the trees outside her room and Clarke jumped, so on edge her mind had leapt straight to thoughts of an attack. She shivered and threw back her coverings, striding through her chamber on a mission. If only she could see Bellamy, assure herself with the proof of her own eyes that he was alright, perhaps she could manage to reclaim a few hours of sleep before dawn.

Throwing open her doors, she expected to find one of one of his soldiers standing sentry as promised. Instead, she found Bellamy himself standing guard, turning to face her in surprise. For all he said he would post one of his men at her door, she ought to have guessed he would entrust the task to no one but himself.

Of course, to expect that of him meant the expectation of certain feelings which she had not at all been sure of, even after their brief but emotional reunion in the Gallic camp. Finding it to be true, however, was more than enough confirmation for her to be brave.

At her harried state, his hand fell to his weapon.

“What is it?” He asked, looking around for whatever danger had driven her to run. “Are you alright?”

Clarke threw herself into his arms.

Bellamy staggered back half a step before his arms came around her. She clutched him to her with all of her strength, letting him support her weight as he buried his face in her hair.

“I dreamed it had been you,” she confessed in a ragged voice. With the same hand that had been ready to unsheath his weapon and do battle for her, he now stroked her hair, soothing her gently. “I dreamed it was you who had been poisoned. I watched you die-- and there was nothing I could do.”

“I’m alright, Clarke. It was only a dream.” Even through his armor, she could feel his heart pounding against her chest, and it calmed her as much as the softness in his voice and the reassurance in his motions.

“It felt so real.”

“It wasn’t.”

She relaxed her hold, unwilling to let him go but knowing that for propriety’s sake, she must. Servants could be discreet, but after the events of tonight she did not trust any of them.

Bellamy looked equally reluctant to let her go.

“You haven’t slept,” she said, observing the dark circles beneath his eyes. He shrugged.

“I’ll steal a few hours in the morning.” He looked as if he were debating adding something else, so Clarke waited him out. At last he added, “Even if I were lying in my bed right now, I would be lying awake worrying for your safety. I’d rather let my men get rest than put them at a post that will keep me awake anyway.”

Clarke could not find her words. For a moment, she was caught where she stood, thrown by the ease with which they slipped back into mutual vulnerability.

Even among her daughter, her mother, her closest advisors and companions, she had never been able to lower her defenses completely. She had too much pride, too much responsibility for that. They depended upon her strength. She hadn’t realized quite how taxing that was until now, knowing that no defenses had ever been able to keep Bellamy out. Remembering how he would always respond in kind by lowering his own.

Slowly, intently, she wrapped her hand around his.

“Perhaps there is a simple solution, then.” He blinked at their twined hands, uncomprehending. Or unwilling to hope.

“My lady, I am not sure this is a good idea.”

“We both need our rest, yet neither of us will be able to sleep apart. If you have a better solution, I would hear it.”

“A more prudent one, perhaps.”

“Surely it’s not my virtue you are protecting.” The thought brought an unexpected smile to her face.

“You have been a married woman,” he countered. “Perhaps I am worried for my own virtue.”

“I believe I compromised that long ago.” At the lingering uncertainty in his eyes, her smile faltered. “I cannot force you to accept my offer, but I want you to know that I have not made it thoughtlessly.”

At last, warmth creased his face, his lips twitching upward on one side. “I do know you never do anything without a great deal of thinking first.”

“Is that a yes?”

Bellamy sighed and gestured her back into her room, following her inside and shutting the doors firmly behind them. “As if you could have settled for a no.”

“I would have,” she protested. “I would never use my station to coerce you into my bed. I want you there of your own will.”

His face dropped and he froze, suspended halfway through the small sitting room. “I meant to remain in the outer room. Close enough to hear if you are in danger, yet still--”

“We are already alone behind closed doors,” Clarke pointed out, trying not to let her disappointment show. “But if you do not wish to share my bed, I will respect your wishes.”

He studied her for a moment, then took a careful step closer, winding his arms around her once more. His hand threaded in her hair, his cheek resting against her temple. For the first time in a long time, Clarke felt utterly safe.

When he spoke, his words were carried on a long breath. “I want to share everything with you.”

 _Still?_ Clarke wanted to ask. But her feelings for him had not tarnished over time, had been given no reason to waver now that she had ascertained he was the same man she had always loved, if not better. Stronger, wiser, more cautious, more tempered. If she could still feel so strongly for him after the years of separation, why should she doubt his own feelings had done the same?

Rather than following that line of conversation to its dangerously tempting conclusion, she merely disentangled herself from him, leading him into the bedchamber. She busied herself rearranging the coverings into some sort of order as he removed his armor.

When he seated himself tentatively beside her, she urged him to lie down, then curled herself against his chest, relishing in the familiarity and savoring the rise and fall of his breaths. He put his arms around her, as heavy on her side as the weight of sleep upon her eyelids. Comfortable and content, she fought to stay awake as long as she was able.

With Bellamy in her bed, herself in his arms, it was all too easy to remember why she had proposed marriage to him once. She never wanted to relinquish this feeling. Yet she knew that if all went as planned with the negotiations, she would have to make the same sacrifice all over again.

For her family, her people, her country, she would give up her heart. For Bellamy’s very safety, she would offer herself.

As the dark and quiet of sleep overtook her, she offered a prayer to any god who was listening, a desperate wish that she could have all that she wanted without having to give him up again.

****

 

As he always did, Bellamy woke before dawn.

If took a moment for the events of the night before to return to him. For him to recall how he had gotten here, in Clarke’s rooms, with her sleeping soundly in his embrace.

He wished he could spirit them far from this place. That they could run, and never look back, and go somewhere no one could stop them from being together.

But the military did not look kindly on such romantic notions, and besides, he knew Clarke would not thank him for preventing her seeing the negotiations through to their end. Bellamy was quite certain that she herself could orchestrate their escape the moment she desired it. And after the night they’d just spent together, he hoped she would know that all she would have to do would be to ask it of him, and he would follow her anywhere.

When the sun rose high enough in the sky to slip through the slats on the shutters, casting shadows across the bedding, Bellamy made himself get up. As he relinquished his hold on her, he wondered if that would be the last time he would ever get to hold her that way. It made him even more loathe to leave her than he already was, but they faced too many worries for him to linger too long.

After he had dressed, he shook her awake.

“Bellamy?” She frowned as she stirred, wiping sleep from her eyes. It gave him a moment to steel himself against her gaze. “You’re dressed.”

“My men will be waiting for me to begin questioning the household.” He couldn’t help smoothing a hand over her hair, returning it from its mussed state to some semblance of order. “Besides, the longer I stay, the more likely it is someone will know where I’ve been tonight.”

Clarke caught his hand and clasped it tight, bringing it to rest by her head on the pillow. Her eyes fluttered shut as she pressed her lips to the back of his hand, looking for all the world like she might drift off again without letting him go.

“Don’t start any wars without me,” she said at last, loosening her hold enough for him to slip his hand from her grasp.

Bellamy smiled and leaned down to kiss her temple.

“I wouldn’t dare, my lady. Try to sleep a little longer.”

“What a hardship,” she mumbled, already slipping away again.

To his great relief, his fellow soldiers did not question the late hour of his arrival, nor ask him where he had been the night before. Neither did the senator, though it felt to Bellamy as if he hadn’t needed to ask, because he already knew.

All the servants who had been present the night before had already been questioned, with nothing to show for it. Wells thought too highly of those in his employ to be a reliable judge of character, and the sheer number of workers in the senator’s household was so overwhelming that Bellamy wondered if his men would ever be able to find the truth.

Person after person they questioned, servant after servant, and all gave the same answers. Few had motive to poison the Gallic commander. Fewer still had opportunity. None raised Bellamy’s suspicions far enough to warrant further interrogation, which meant, by the end, that he would need to further question _all_ of them.

Around midday, the senator’s advisor stepped into the room to confer quietly with Wells. Tired of chasing trails that led to nowhere, Bellamy dismissed the servant before him and raised his eyebrows at the senator.

“The healer has arrived. She has brought with her an apothecary. They believe they have identified the poison.”

“That’s something,” Bellamy muttered. “Is your man bringing them here?”

“We’ll go to them. They’re dining with Clarke. I think a meal would do you some good. Help you think more clearly.”

The meal sounded less appealing than did seeing Clarke again. Bellamy was surprised at his longing for her when he had been at her side mere hours ago.

“Lead the way,” he said, standing.

Wells started down the corridor, an amused smile playing upon his face.

“I had thought it would be more difficult to persuade you to cease your investigation.”

“I never turn down the offer of a meal,” Bellamy responded with a grin.

Clarke’s eyes met his the moment he entered the room. He gave her a deep nod, not quite befitting her station but at least less familiar than to greet her by name. Her companions stood when they saw Wells. The healer, Maya, Bellamy had met the night before. The man to her right, whom Wells greeted as Monty, was new to him. The apothecary, he presumed.

“The poison is not one I am familiar with,” he said, when they had all taken seats again. Bellamy sat with his men on the opposite end of the table from Clarke. “It is not from this region, I can tell you that much.”

“There are any number of ways someone in your household could have obtained a foreign poison,” Bellamy told Wells, frustrated. “Merchants, travels, visits from family members--”

“It tells us nothing,” he agreed.

“Were you able to tend to the victim?” Clarke asked. “Perhaps his symptoms could help you to be more specific--”

“They would not let us see him,” Maya said regretfully. “We were told that their healer has seen to him and expects he will recover.”

Clarke frowned. Bellamy saw her trouble only a beat later, before she even asked, “Without an antidote?”

“Perhaps they have an antidote.”

“I saw their healer work after the assault on Arcadia. I don’t believe his knowledge to be very advanced.”

A servant standing in the doorway turned suddenly, catching Bellamy’s eye. He watched her accept a dish handed to her by someone he could not see, then kept his eyes on her as she in turn handed the dish to a servant further inside the room, who could ease it onto the table without drawing attention. In fact, Bellamy felt certain that he was the only one who noticed the commonplace exchange, for the conversation had never faltered.

“You have someone taste your food before you eat it, do you not?” He asked, interrupting something that the apothecary was saying. Wells nodded slowly.

“Of course. But you’ve already questioned the servant who poured--”

“Don’t you think the commander would have someone taste her own wine before she drank of it?” Bellamy shook his head. “Especially in the midst of enemies.”

“We did not sit down to a set table,” Clarke reminded him. “Our glasses were handed to us. The poisoner had no way of knowing which glass would go to the commander.”

“It was lucky that the poisoner did not wait for a better opportunity,” Wells added.

“Or perhaps it went to her man by design.”

“Why would it be--”

“Because the poisoner did not want to harm the commander,” Clarke said slowly, discerning the direction of Bellamy’s thoughts at last. “He poisoned himself to harm the negotiations.”

Bellamy nodded. “They have the antidote because the poison was theirs all along.”

Stunned silence overtook the room.

“That is a dangerous accusation to make,” Wells said, slow. “And not one they will accept easily. We will need proof.”

Proof? Stumped, Bellamy allowed his eyes to wander where they wanted, which was, of course, to Clarke. Her brow had furrowed, turning the problem over in her own mind just as he did in his.

“Now that we have a clearer idea from where the poison came, we may be able to identify it,” Monty offered.

“If we were to find the poison among one of her men’s belongings, she could not deny that they had the means and opportunity,” Justus said to Bellamy in a low voice. Bellamy shook his head.

“They would think we had planted it ourselves.”

“Not if they conduct the search,” said Clarke, their conversational aside not having subverted her attention. “I could appeal to the commander. Tell her our theory, and that there is an easy way to find the truth.”

Bellamy tensed.

“And if she takes offense?” Wells asked.

“We must trust that my diplomacy skills are better than that.”

“And if she was privy to the plan?” Bellamy managed to keep his tone even as he voiced his objection. “She may take it upon herself to ensure your silence. You’ll need one of us with you for protection.”

Clarke shook her head before he even finished speaking. “She will be on her guard if I show up with soldiers--”

“And we _cannot_ guarantee your safety if we do not accompany you,” he cut in, his voice growing louder with frustration.

“Then you cannot guarantee my safety,” said Clarke coolly.

The finality in her voice was a fortress wall between them, one that could not be knocked down no matter how forcefully Bellamy slammed himself against it. An earnest plea may have made a difference, but the presence of the senator and his fellow soldiers kept him silent. The look in Clarke’s eye told him that she knew he did not intend his silence to be agreement but that she would take it as such anyway.

She did not spare him another glance as they all worked out the details of the plan, which chafed in places where Bellamy’s nerves were already raw.

He had long been used to feeling that Clarke was far away. Now he had to learn what it felt like to sit at the same table with her yet feel that impossible, ever-widening distance.

He found that he did not care for it very much at all.

* * *

Whatever foreboding he had felt at mere mention of the plan, it had tripled by the time Clarke had left for her audience with the commander. He had stood with his hands clasped behind his back as one of the senator’s men helped her onto a horse. It took everything he had within him not to rush to her, to tell her goodbye in case--

 _Trust her diplomacy,_ she had said. Bellamy did not know much of her diplomatic talents, but he did know her to be strong-willed and cunning. It was Clarke herself he would have to trust in, or he might lose his mind with worry.

“I am not blind, you know.”

He started at the senator’s voice at his shoulder, having been so lost in thought that he had not moved since Clarke’s horse had disappeared around the curve in the trail.

“I see what she means to you,” Wells continued. “And what you mean to her. I have known her for too long for that to escape my notice.”

Bellamy held his silence. What response could he give? Denials would do him no good, but to confirm the senator’s suspicions would not be appropriate.

Yet it seemed that Wells did not require a response, for after a moment of giving Bellamy the chance to speak, he said, “She intends to offer herself to the commander.”

The very air around them stilled.

“As an ambassador?” Bellamy asked, throat dry.

“In marriage.”

He felt the muscle in his jaw jump. Wells must have noticed his distress too, for when he spoke again his voice was kind.

“Any arguments I would make to dissuade her she has already refuted. I thought you ought to know.”

“Knowing her intentions will not make it easier to live with.”

Wells snorted. “You imagine me more selfless than I am. I told you in hopes that you would make certain arguments that I cannot.”

At last Bellamy looked to the senator, disbelieving.

“I could not hope to marry so far above my station. Those arguments have no foundation in reality.”

Wells shook his head.

“Your station may yet be elevated. There are plenty of other tactics we can use in our negotiations. I see no need for Clarke to offer herself, not at the cost of her own happiness.” He turned to go, clapping Bellamy on the shoulder as he passed. “Give it some thought.”

The advice was pointless. As the day wore on, Bellamy could do nothing _but_ think about all of it-- about Clarke, about her intentions toward the commander, about the way he felt for her. With each passing hour that she did not return, he grew more and more agitated, a mixture of worry and desperation creating a whirlpool within him that pulled any other thoughts and feelings he might have deep beneath the surface.

Justus noticed his stormy mood and answered it with taunts and challenges alike until Bellamy threw a fist in his direction. It felt good to unleash his pent-up emotion through aggression, even if it did nothing to abate his fears that Clarke was in danger.

They trained and sparred until the sun began to sink below the treeline, Bellamy pouring every ounce of his concentration into attack and defense until he had worked himself to the point of exhaustion.

“I wondered what all this commotion was about.”

Clarke’s voice broke through his haze and Bellamy faltered, giving Justus the window he needed to get in a solid hit on his shoulder. He grunted and fell backward into the dust.

“Sorry to make your man look bad,” Justus said, turning to Clarke with a cheeky grin. Despite his cockiness, his breathing was heavy and he sweated profusely. Bellamy hadn’t gone down easily. “You have to understand, it’s not every day I get to knock him on his ass.”

“I see how hard it would be to resist the temptation,” she agreed, voice light though her smile was strained.

Using the distraction to his advantage, Bellamy launched himself at Justus, catching him around the middle and driving him to the ground. Justus wheezed a laugh, the air having been knocked from his lungs.

“I suppose I deserved that,” he gasped, taking the hand Bellamy offered to pull him up.

“I’m showing my appreciation for your efforts this afternoon.”

“Next time, show it with wine.” He shook his head, smiling. “I’ll be taking my leave now.”

“Thank you,” Clarke murmured, her eyes on Bellamy.

Any improvement in his mood vanished at the serious expression upon her face. He fought to get his ragged breath under control, taking a few tentative steps toward her as he searched for any visible sign of injury.

“You’re alright?”

Clarke nodded. “The commander took some persuading, but she eventually did order a search. They found the poison. She has agreed to return to the negotiations.”

Bellamy let out a breath. That was something, at least.

“I heard you intend to offer her your hand,” he said, stepping closer still.

“Wells told you?” He nodded and she dropped her gaze. “I made the offer today, after the truth had come to light.”

His heart stopped.

Had the fates brought them back together, only to separate them once more? It felt like some cruel trick of the gods for him to get to stand beside Clarke, to see her and speak with her and hold her, when he could never have her.

“You already offered," he repeated, the words echoing in his hollow chest.

“Yes," she confessed, her voice small. "I--”

“Don’t marry her.” The words burst from him. Despite turning the thought over in his mind all day, he had never come to a decision as to whether he would make the plea to Clarke or not. But now, frantic with the fear that he was too late, he could not restrain it.

Her eyes widened in shock.

“Bellamy, I--” she began, voice so soft it could only be the delivery of a truth he did not wish to hear. Not without having said his piece.

“Don’t marry her,” he begged, stepping closer still. She was within his reach now, but felt still miles away. “Stay here. Stay with Wells, or with your mother, give me time to make a name for myself. I can’t-- I shouldn’t make any promises, but if that’s what it takes to be with you, I promise you I won’t rest until I’ve managed it.”

Clarke tilted her head to one side as he spoke, the expression in her eyes full of understanding. She was the one to step toward him now, raising one hand to his cheek.

“Bellamy,” she began again. He cut her off one last time.

“You asked me to marry you once.” His hands found her waist, squeezing as though it might be the last time. “Now it’s my turn to ask. Don’t marry her. Marry me.”

Clarke kissed him then, firm and certain, unyielding.

He kissed her back, unsure whether it was a farewell kiss or acquiescence, but knowing he could not stand to be the one to break it in either case. As he kissed her, he tried to memorize her scent, the feel of her beneath his fingertips, all the scraps of herself that she poured into it. The last time they shared what he thought would be their last kiss, he had not given it his all, hoping to protect some shred of his heart from pain. This time, he abandoned all thoughts of coming out of this unscathed. 

In the end, Clarke was the one to draw back, a fond smile upon her lips that made his heart soar.

“Is it my turn to speak now?” She teased.

His hands clenched tighter around her involuntarily but he nodded. There was nothing he could add that would further his cause. He had offered his heart to her, and no speech in the world could convince her to take it if she did not want.

“The commander declined my offer.” She was still smiling, so she could not have been too upset by the rejection, yet Bellamy could not bring himself to think it meant she would agree to his proposal.

“That makes twice for you,” he said, cautious. Clarke laughed in delighted surprise.

“I hadn’t thought of it that way, but I suppose it does.” She bit her lip. “Apparently when I told her of how you had pieced together where the poison must have come from, I gave myself away. I spoke of you too lovingly. She told me in no uncertain terms that she could not marry someone whose loyalties were so compromised. And she wasn’t wrong. If it came down to saving her or saving you in wartime, I wouldn’t even have a choice. It would be you every time.”

Bellamy swallowed hard, daring to hope.

“Are you saying you will wait for me?”

Clarke shook her head, and if it weren’t for the way she beamed Bellamy’s heart would have plummeted.

”We’ve waited long enough.”

”Clarke I can’t-- I can’t give you the life you are accustomed to. Not yet.”

”I don’t care.” She rose up on her toes to kiss him again, dropping his hands in favor of winding her arms around his neck. “Six years ago, I was a girl with a dying father and no connections of my own. Now I am a woman who has powerful allies-- senators and commanders and many others who value my insight-- and a mother whose status is secure. My family can protect me for a change.” At once she sobered. “If it matters much to you that you elevate your station before we wed, I would wait for you as long as you wished. But it does not matter to me. All I want is you.”

Emotion welled in his chest, tears brimming in his eyes, and he kissed her again gently.

”I’m yours,” he told her, as much a vow as a fact of truth. “And you’re mine.”

”Yes.” She grinned. “That is the idea.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That’s all folks!
> 
> This fic has been so angsty I might add a happily ever after chapter/flash forward slightly chapter if there is any interest for it. Even if not, thanks for reading and I hope you enjoyed!


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